A Day So Bright
by Lynny M
Summary: Black Jack “I want a day so bright, it makes me lie down and close my eyes.” When you’re trapped between genders, there’s nowhere to go...except the past. Kei Kisaragi's story.
1. Chapter 1

- A Day So Bright -

**Author's Notes:** I purchased the two English versions of Black Jack available last summer, just a few days before my birthday. I carefully rationed the reading, only allowing myself a few stories at a time. Still, the two volumes only lasted two days, and then they were mine to reread. All of those stories were good, but there was one chapter that I pored over again and again, a chapter that had grabbed me from the first page and continued to fascinate me in seemingly infinite ways. In English it's titled _The Encounter _and it tells the story of Black Jack's 'lost' love (lost, perhaps, due to a change in gender role).

I have seen few characters with the beauty that Kisaragi posses. It's true, I tend to like characters who are androgynous and/or ambiguous (I also have a fetish for Ham Egg, but that's another story). Tezuka drew Kisaragi to be very believable, and yet _not _so believable. Her appearance changes throughout each panel. She becomes effeminate _here _and masculine _there_. Take for example the cinematic zoom-in effect that Tezuka does so well; when Kisaragi sees Black Jack as she prepares to leave Japan, the view from afar presents her as masculine as she _ever _gets; the close-up shot betrays her as an overexcited woman. Another favorite: When she's calling Black Jack from her hotel room, we get her face in a close-up that's so invading that she actually looks like neither sex. That kind of makes me hot in a funny sort of way.

Seriously though, my point is, Tezuka absolutely rocks at drawing, and he really did a bang-up job on that chapter. I find Kisaragi's story to be the utmost in quality (in that Tezuka way) and am constantly thrilled by it. The Encounter inspired me so much, I decided to take a shot at writing about it.

IN A NUTSHELL

This fanfiction isn't going to be too long; perhaps four or five chapters. It is told in 1st person in both present and past tense. I hope to make it tell of her side of The Encounter as well as a more in-depth examination of her past and her relationship with Black Jack.

Dedications: **To Emma**, who I owe a lot to; **To Tezuka**, who is rolling over in his grave, screaming in agony and making plans to haunt my future. Sorry, big guy.

- - - - -

Soundtrack: I owe the majority of my musical inspiration to two songs.

**Make A Wish **(by Conjure One) — the lyrics are so fitting it's almost creepy.

**An Innis Aigh** (by The Chieftains) — It's not in English, but I feel it works.

-

This morning on the harbour  
When I said goodbye to you  
I remember how I swore  
That I'd come back to you one day  
And as the sunset came to meet  
The evening on the hill  
I told you I'd always love you  
I always did and I always will

- The Body of an American (The Pogues)

(this song doesn't actually have anything to do with love...but go with it anyway)

-

I'm sure it's a nice day outside.

I think I can see it in the blue sky, the wisp of the clouds, and the cold composure of the ocean. Yes—a very crisp day is my estimate, well, my estimate from behind the little window in my quarters, anyway. I've been so busy that I haven't even been on deck this morning—which is typical for a port day. The entirety of the Brilliance has been busy.

The captain has been kind enough to let me have the three days off. To be truthful, actually, he forced the vacation on me; I guess he took pity on my story. I ended up explaining to him that I haven't set foot in Japan in five years and when I told him that, the kind-hearted bastard looked a little shocked, as if my absence was a form of cruel and unusual punishment. A few weeks ago, when our next route was confirmed, he took me aside and we walked on the deck like a pair of old friends, and he said: "Kei, you're staying in Yokohama when we land," and I must have looked perplexed because he continued with, "you're not fired, you're going on vacation. A man can only work so hard and travel so much. We're scheduled to stop anyway, and you look tired." And I said I wasn't tired, but he didn't notice.

I haven't even finished packing yet. I procrastinate on this for so many reasons, and if he found out, I have no doubt he'd pack for me — and kick me off the ship by brute physical force. His intentions are good, yes, but he fails to see the sensitivity of the situation. Still, that's what I want, for him not to see. He can't know me or my pain—it'd be too much bother. But you have to appreciate a man who cares for the well-being of his employees. It is a rarer thing to come across. With that thought in mind, I can pull away from the little windows and face my bed. My briefcase has been opened upon it, and clothing sits in piles. I will pack sparingly, nothing too formal, just the regular suits and ties. If I'm on shore and I'm feeling well enough, I can wear a silk shirt with a good collar and maybe I'll go to lunch.

I can be the dweeb without any company to eat with. That's always a humbling experience. But I _am _getting ahead of myself—by far. Lunch means another game _and _it means using my time as unproductively as possible.

So much to do.

Private items are hidden beneath shirts and slacks, and my better ties fit on the other side. I keep papers in a binder in the top half, mostly work things, medical files. That's all I really need. I am not a social creature. I predict I will spend most of my time eating room service food and apologizing to the hotel workers.

I spent a lot of time agitating over this trip inland, I know I do—but maybe my captain is right when he says I look tired.

There are times, becoming more and more frequent, where I start feeling not so ok. Everyone has those times. Mine come when I'm alone. After a hard day, I stand in my room and look in the mirror and sometimes, the burden of what I see is painful, worrisome. I think, how much longer? It's been so long already since that pivoting time...all those loose ends should be tied up by now!

So maybe I do need this rest, this time off. Maybe I need to reevaluate and trim my edges, soften my lines and tighten my form. I can tell that I'm starting to look a little threadbare. Maybe I'll fix myself and feel better upon my return.

I close my briefcase, decide that leaving is indeed good for me. The intercom crackles on and someone—not me—is called to an office. As if I were being watched, I sniff and wipe my hands on my pants, lifting the case by the handle, thinking, _everything you do like someone is watching—why do you do that? You outgrew that self-conscious mannerism when you gave that speech on staph in hospitals; you feared no IV, no catheter, no senior physician so help you God. Why do you do that? _

Then I find myself captured by the window again, and now more than ever I'm hoping for good weather. I can no longer see what lies outside. It is only a vague blur of suggestive color, and that white, white light. I like it when the light shines through so bright. I like it when it dulls my senses, slows me down, makes me half-blind and brave-afraid. I want a day so bright, it makes me lie down and close my eyes—so I can think about things in the privacy of my own mind, so I can fantasize without the repercussions from what is real, so I can dare to remember what I can't recall in public life.

-

I wonder if people really mean it when they wave goodbye to me.

I mean...well, I suppose it's a question we all have. We're all insecure sometimes, aren't we? But me—I'm sure I come off as a little strange. People _seem _to like me, but there is a certain kind of like that is mostly pretend, mostly superficial. That kind of like is easy to maintain. All you have to do is say hi in the hallway or act like you care at certain moments. Is that how it is with me?

I wonder if people say things about me when I'm not around to hear it. Do the crewmen nudge elbows after I walk by? What do they think of my voice or the way I walk?

"Bye, Kei." Case in point. A skinny, awkward porter waves at me. The smile on his face betrays his shyness, and I have to wave back. I _must _look so uncomfortable—I'm afraid I frighten so many people. Not frighten in the _real_ way, no, but frighten in the _unknown _way. They look at me and think, _what is that_? It must be amplified by the way I carry myself, acting like a spooked rabbit; so flighty.

Still, people know my name. They know who I am.

Hell, it _is _written on my door: KEI KISARAGI, MD. In big white letters. Lately, I've been positively loathe to lay eyes on that door, and I know that Yokohama is the reason, and this makes me even more distressed. Yokohama means Japan, and Japan means...what does it mean? A lot of unpleasant things, I guess. Past things.

Yes, I'm a doctor, a GP and the senior medical staffer on the cruise liner _Patron Brilliance. _I care for my patients in a kind but stressful environment. I play emergency room for broken limbs, drowning victims, and appendicitis cases, but the minutia—sea sickness, dehydration, and hangovers—those are when I feel a little less a lie. I feel like a real person when I can _say take two of these and lie down_. I like the personal involvement when a child needs my help, when I can prescribe electrolytes to an exhausted woman.

Working in an emergency, of course, is where any doctor shines. People say that about me, sure they do. I handle an emergency and I am regarded as something to be reconciled with. But I think I might fake the bravado, the strength, the speed. After the emergency has passed, I lay in my room and think, did I try too hard? Did they notice? Did I throw back my shoulders too far?

I wonder.

-

The wind is salty and cool-warm on deck. It pulls my hair in front of my glasses and loosens my carefully tucked tie. I can hear birds, whistles, waves, and cars. Yokohama Harbor—painful, familiar place.

Japan.

This place is broken dreams and a shattered life. No wonder I've been reluctant to come back here. The man who checks ID at the gangway moves me on, saying he will see me soon, and I am on my way.

I am truly exposed. The air is harsher the further I step onto land. Huge, loud sounds make me jump. Construction and shipping crews surround me. Already I can see the white, imposing building and the blue lettering of the Yokohama Waterfront—that's the hotel I'm staying at these next three days. Oh, the city! Really, it's so pretty. It hurts to be here.

Yokohama means Japan, and Japan means so many things. I'm trying to remember his face. Yes, such strong features he had—the enigmatic Black Jack, yes. Surgeon extraordinaire. Scorn and joy of the JMA. Pessimistic, stubborn berserker who is hated and loved and often feared and _sometimes _regarded as myth.

Oh, damn.

He may bring the worst of this pain to the surface. People don't realize that I am closer than most to that mysterious miracle worker. They fail to recognize the year of our class, the school we came from, the hospitals we shared. And the further I get from my ship, the closer I get to what used to be...and that, that means I have to make a phone call, doesn't it?

It's all right, the things that aren't known. My past, his past...it's not _meant _to be known. It would be hard on me if people constantly knew my background. I have a feeling _he_ wouldn't like it, either.

Or would he even care?

Probably the latter. He never showed it when he cared, and he rarely, if ever, cared at all.

-

In my memory there lurks fragments of things that happened so long ago.

I remember a warm spring day and a wheelchair. There were so many soft hands, many of them slim, one pair chubby but familiar. Ribbons. A sun hat. I did not have an appetite, but I ate anyway, chewing, swallowing. Cold, sweet lemonade and hot, salty fish. Pushed into my mouth, one after the other. I also remember also a cold room and stale cotton clothing. I pushed and pulled that fabric, frustrated, hating. The lights were not on, and everything was grey-blue. I may have cried.

And that's part of what makes this homeland-visit so _hard_, strange things like that. This is where that kind of thing happened. And so much more than that, of course. I _was _born here, too, but that whole portion of my life has become kind of unimportant.

Black Jack was born here too, I suppose. He attended school here, the same school I went to, the same class, the same hospital. We had the same impossible teachers and the same inspiring instructors. And though he tried so hard to avoid it, we did know each other. He _did _dare to save my life when not one doctor could be confident about their skills and my suffering.

And afterward, he remained as stolid as ever, as unmoving and mute as he could possibly be. And like so many times before, I could spot life in him when he thought nobody was watching.

-

Yokohama Waterfront: new age and metropolitan. All marble and white suede stucco with glass accents everywhere. Palm trees would be fitting, but there are none. It smells unfamiliar and my heart races as I move around the lobby, which is empty of guests. I can, however, hear the footsteps of busy workers and vacationing families as they ascend the stairs above me. Looking up at the spiral makes me feel small so I continue without delay. The man at the front desk sees me coming and waits patiently with a gentle, smug expression.

He is one of the strangest human beings I have ever seen, at least upon first impression. His lips are fat, his skull is skinny. His hair is puffy and black. His face shows just the smallest sheen of oil from over-grooming. But he's a good worker, saying hello and lifting some papers as I approach him.

"Hi." This is my voice. I keep it sharp, witty, to-the-point. This is part of a game. _I am strong, so strong_. "Kisaragi. It's pre-paid through my employer." He looks through his reservation book, tapping the lines with his shiny black pen.

"Kisaragi Kei. Cruise liner's physician, huh?" He whistles. Apparently my occupation is written on the roster. "Must be fun to travel, all that good food and nice weather...hell, I'd take that job. Especially if you get paid vacation like this." He smiles and laughs; it's his job to bullshit with the customers, though he might not believe that. I let the subtle signs of pride shine through, subtle, subtle. My little smile, my eyes. Yes, the job is nice. Nicer than yours, you'd like to think.

Out loud I say, "It's got its moments." My voice is neither patronizing nor disdainful, though I do not attempt to hide my stress about being here, so the phrase comes out a little flat. I think he thinks I'm growing impatient.

"Too true." He says. "Here's your key. Room 713."

My thank-you sounds insincere, but really it isn't. Like the conversation beforehand, it's a disguised game. I'm an easy-to-handle lie who survives by quietly blending in with the people who interact with me. I'm just a busy person, walking away to my room, trying not to think too much about my reasons for being here.

Japan reminds me of so many things that I thought I may have escaped.

It reminds me of all the things I can't really return to. It reminds me of unfinished business and hidden feelings, old friends, family, a life that I no longer have. It reminds me that, a long time ago, I was a complete person—and, almost more importantly, I was a woman.

-

**To Be Continued**

Well...how did you like that? It's a good start, I think, to a story that should have so much potential. My love for Kisaragi's character runs deep, and I hope that I can at least share some of that with readers. This fanfiction is probably going to be slow. I'm going to really try to do good on this...so thank you for your patience.

Dear God, that was _short_...ah well. Reviews make the word go 'round!


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes: **Kisaragi continues to haunt my thoughts as a stunningly beautiful character, which is good, because I'm writing this for her as much as for me.

This chapter is a little boring. I'm the first to admit that. It just doesn't have the punch of the last chapter. Second-Chapter Doldrums, I like to call it :D No, this chapter takes no violent turns, but it's necessary.

Kisaragi must have a foundation if she's going to get all angsty. At least, if you want to understand it, she does.

He.

Oh, man, she's so _cool_.

Read and Review. Thanks!

Soundtrack: Various feel-good themes. Stay tuned for more emotional quotes from Conjure One songs.

-

A Day So Bright - Chapter 2

-

That last year of school and internship had so much promise.

I was a good student and a good doctor, too. Being modest in this area is pointless; I _was _good. I excelled in all subjects, and as a doctor I was as adept as any. Looking back, I can see that I contrasted my peers and coworkers, and that that contrast was well-liked among the community. I was special and I rose among the ranks, earning acceptance and respect wherever I ventured.

That particular year, I was the only woman interning to become a physician. Perhaps that was part of the equation—I had a woman's touch but I was as skilled as any man in my field. I had such great passion for my work; I slaved for medicine, my mind working at peak levels through paper after paper, patient case after patient case. And I loved the people. I had no animosity for the sick person, so I could always smile at them and mean it...which went a long way with both staff and patients.

The medical faculty were my good friends. I was well liked by both teachers and students. Senior staff treated me humanely. I was on good terms with my interning friends as well. Many of my female friends were nurses, and we worked side-by-side on a regular basis. Dr. Klein was the chief physician and he was always good to me.

So everyone I associated with was, in turn, associated with medicine. I immersed myself in medical study. For a time it was all I knew, and everyone around me built me up, helped me climb toward a goal of medical greatness—but however 'destined' I felt, however well things went, however holy my presence on the staff became, I was just preluding a far greater phenomenon—as I enjoyed my summer evenings, my friends and my small successes, a different creature was roaming the halls of the campus hospital.

His real name was Kuroo Hazama, but everybody called him Black Jack—everybody, including himself. Even the doctors who ran the hospital called him by that name, even if they hated him. I assumed he started it out of his own personal preference, though why it was important, I didn't know.

He was not popular in his medical community—and there was viable reason for that, I think. He was very hard to interact with. At the start of our internship, I rarely worked with him, but I would hear about his behavior through doctors and other students . At first, comments were vague and minor—but the disdain for him grew, and more and more often I was subject to his teacher's complaints.

He was arrogant. That was the biggest trouble. He spoke with lifeless words. He had no respect for you—he might accept you, but there was no respect in him. Conversing with him was next to impossible. He never spoke off-subject; he never said more than the minimum and so often he left people hanging in terrible silence. According to our physicians he never accepted advice he deemed unnecessary; he never admitted to his teachers' skill. If he thought his way of doing something was right, he refused to acknowledge another approach. He openly disputed surgical convention; he believed that human limbs could be reattached with full function and he and Dr. Wana fought tooth and nail over that concept more than once.

Black Jack worked robotically. He frightened his patients with his cold demeanor. He said things to the ones he didn't like—bad things, things about their morals and their personal lives. He got in trouble for it, too, but he never wavered in his blistering hauteur.

And there was another reason for people to stay away, a reason I think was responsible for the majority of his loneliness. Black Jack's face was not unlike a patchwork quilt, covered in reconstructive scars gained after some horrible trauma. The most prominent line ran at a diagonal across the center of his face, as if his entire head had, at one point, been split like a honeydew melon. If you stood face-to-face with him, you were privy to crude, heavy stitching, the tiny crimping of his skin, the plastic shine from attempts to improve the lines cosmetically.

The scaring trailed down his neck and was also visible on his forearms. Parts of his face were molted gray and brown, presumably from burns or skin graphs. Tufts of his hair had gone prematurely white. Although he was not malformed, he was quite unsettling to look at. I think that's what scared people the most.

So his unpleasant traits piled up, and Black Jack was not popular. Was he a skilled student? I think many would be surprised at the lack of attention his ability received, especially since he is now renowned for his dexterity. I do recall one evening spent in the cadaver lab with Klein; we stood at opposite ends of a body that Kuroo himself had practiced with. I'm sure that I had an actual reason for being there—maybe a question that needed answering—but Klein was busy being interested in Black Jack's work.

He pored over the exercises only vaguely, though he did seem intent. I stood across from him, hugging a clipboard, blinking at his remarks, neither interested nor bored with the situation. My specialty was to be in general medicine, and while I did study surgery, it was not nearly as important a venue. However, I felt I needed to interact with Klein, to be polite—so I asked him what his thoughts were.

He said that Black Jack exhibited good control; his work was neat and textbook quality, and the fact that he had only marginal experience made the fact interesting. Here we were interrupted by Professor Tokyu, a very large man who carried a lot of his fat in his face. He had come to stand before us both and had presumably been listening in, and he took one look at the body and said it didn't matter—no one would want Black Jack to care for them because he was insensitive and rude, and he acted on his own judgment, ignoring the wants of his patients.

"That insolent boy would spit in my face if he had the opportunity." Tokyu remarked finally. "I'd like to see him try just so I could thrash him."

And though at first I was just a little afraid of him, I was not so easily conned into despising him the way the staff did. Maybe I was too good for that sort of thing, you know—sort of a good aspect of 'holier-than-thou' syndrome. But I'm not saying I was rewarded for being kind to him, no. Every time we worked together, my smiles and earnest attempts at friendship got no attention. Like the staff had warned, he never said more than was absolutely necessary, and when he did speak, it was without passion.

But passion was still visible in him. Never had I seen a man so vexed by medicine. He harbored terrible anger toward almost every aspect of the medical career except for, perhaps, the tools that he had to work with. Where I was fine with accepting a patient, he would rather question them. He never found anything particularly funny, even when I went out of my way to make a joke. He was forever stolid, ingesting information and never bothering to include others in his thoughts.

I remember watching him eat once, watching him as I stood several feet away. He sat facing away from the table, chewing and not tasting, looking very uncomfortable. When I asked if I could eat with him, he said very plainly that he preferred to be alone.

It was never easy.

He was strange, but it did get better. In my ongoing quest for understanding, I pursued him and his mystery. I began to see him in better lights, saw small instances of human emotion—he liked feeding the lab rabbits, and once I saw him take one out of its cage and feed it out of his hand in an unparalleled act of kindness. As much as he criticized the patients, he was never cruel to them physically, always moving in a sure fashion and working through painful procedures in a fluid way. Of course, his social disparity may have lost him points. The man had no bedside manner—or so we all assumed.

Did it matter? Not to me. He wasn't necessarily bad. He had to have his reasons and I couldn't doubt his intelligence; I knew he must have had a plan. In fact, in a short amount of time, I developed quite a crush on him, one that was kinder and warmer than previous experiences. I saw in him a beautiful logic, a choosy, forceful, love-hate relationship with the world. He was angry, but his anger was a tool and I could see him shaping his work with it—whether he was aware of it or not.

So I began to enjoy the time I spent with him, though he treated me no differently. He was cold and distant, far away even when at my side.

Sometimes he came through—sometimes, although it was always short-lived and unpredictable. Often I would work late into the night, finishing whatever I could and then starting more. Black Jack appeared to do the same, but he favored the labs, and I, desk work, so I rarely saw him. Occasionally he would walk through the room, and when he noticed me there he would chide me for working so late. He seemed to think it was dangerous, to my heath as well as my personal being. Once, when it was raining especially hard, he offered me an umbrella and then told me to go home. Charmed to a great extent, I asked him if he would care to walk me out. His response was true to his character.

"No." He said. He sounded proud, truly stuck-up, but also somewhat apathetic. "I have more work to do."

A normal person would have at least pretended to be sorry, even if they didn't care to walk with me in the first place. But there was no sorry from him—no sugared excuse, no awkward moment of inner conflict. Black Jack refused to acknowledge this simple social value. It was just no, and he turned and left, and I walked home alone.

I couldn't blame him. I think he knew how I felt about him, and he was doing his part to avoid becoming involved. He understood the rule—the more involved you get, the harder it is to control your emotions. And he was busy on a different track, thinking and working for medicine. He would pull away from all of us; I should have known that from the start—and that was really alright, because he was destined for something different.

Of course, at the time, my work was as important as his. Black Jack may have distracted me, but there was always my need to advance myself. My work continued. I never ceased my research. I wanted to do what I loved with increasing skill and authority.

I've heard it said that those who live by caring for others neglect themselves in the effort. Only later did I wonder if Black Jack hurt as he worked. Sometimes I wonder if that's what happened to me, that maybe in my effort to become a good physician, I overlooked myself until it was too late.

-

-

The hotel room is very plain—but then Yokohama prides itself on the view of the harbor more than anything else, and I do have a view. Everything is done in blues. The lamp, bedding, trim, and various details are all cobalt, and then the walls are white. The furniture is sleek and minimal. It's a little sparse, yes, but I need disparity. My mind is not into feeling good right now.

I sit on my bed and alternate my gaze between the reading lamp, the provided telephone, and the scrap of stationary in my hands. It's later now, and I'm afraid, a literal bundle of nerves: the only thing I have to do in this homeland of mine is _call _him, make sure he still exists. He never asked me to call, no—

His number is written on the scrap piece. I got it from an Australian hospital on a previous port stop—Black Jack's number is not listed generally for obvious reasons, but most major hospitals carry it, and if asked they generally give it out. It helps that I'm a physician; Black Jack's name can be taboo in many medical communities, but there's always _someone _who sympathizes with his cause, and that allows a sort of camaraderie between health workers. It makes you feel special, I suppose. Part of something larger.

I have his number, and I must call him.

And what will he have to say? At the worst, he could allow me to see that he no longer cares like I do. He's known for that, you know — stripping people down and letting them burn in humiliation — and even if it's different for each case, even if it helps more than it hurts, it's still a saddening prospect.

Then there's more reasonable outcomes, of course. He might be away on business. What if he has an answering machine ? What will I say then? What can he _possibly _think of me? I am but a footnote in his current medical repertoire. I did not pay for my surgery. It was not limb re-attachment, not neurosurgery, not a mystery illness. It was a hard case, but...

I dial the number and wait. On ring three, he picks up.

"Hello?"

"Doctor Black Jack?"

"Speaking." I can recognize the utter staunchness of his voice. The tone and rigid pronunciation are unchanged. It is somewhat paralyzing, and I realize that this is what makes him so frightening. To cover I say:

"This is Doctor Kisaragi. I—" It is the true bombshell. Cold sweat is actually gathering at my temples, but his response is too fast to give me time to freeze up.

"Doctor Kisaragi?" A pause, then, "Are you in Japan?"

"Yes! I'm staying in Yokohama!"

I hear dishes crashing into a sink. He asks how long I'm staying and I say just three days. Today, tomorrow, and most of the next. "I don't know if you're busy," I say, my words becoming fast enough to stumble over. "But if you have time, I— would like to meet up with you. I want to talk. I—" Let's not forget, he knows that I'm all pretend these days. It's more than a little painful.

"That's fine. I'll come up to Yokohama; no sense in having you drive out here."

"And Yokohama Park?"

"That's fine." He exhales, waits in silence, and then continues in his deadpan speech. "Are you alright?"

"I'm alright, Doctor." I put great emphasis on these words, thinking and believing and trying to convey them to be true. I even let the warmth of his concern show in my smile. I tell him I'm going to turn in—and he says goodbye and hangs up, leaving me to myself again.

It's ok; it's what I like. I do better when I'm alone. I kick off my shoes and throw off my jacket and lay down, hoping for quick sleep. Hotel beds are so alien, by nature, I suppose. The sheets are too crisp, the blankets never enough just because you don't recognize them. I might live on a cruise liner, but I know my bed.

Oh, to hell with this! Lights off.

-

**To be Continued**

So - I'm building up the delicate Jenga tower of relationships and uncomfortable feelings.

Please take the time to tell me how you felt about this chapter. Reviews make the world turn on axis, you know?

Thank you.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Day So Bright**

Chapter 3

**Author's Notes:** Oh man, this chapter was just back-breaking. I don't even know how I managed this.

I do admit that this chapter deviates from Tezuka's original (and god-like) storyline. In order to keep myself from embarrassment and to keep a certain amount of order I have changed some of the bigger parts; if you've read the chapter, you'll see which.

I send my love to those friends who have kept me entertained and happy during these many months. They know who they are. If it weren't for their will to discuss Tezuka on demand, I might not have finished this.

That and the endless fan-art pieces. And the...well, the 'writing'. That they do. For me.

Please enjoy.

-

I've seen it watching me  
That misty thing  
Without a face  
It weaves my thoughts  
Lined them up in black lace  
It buries my shape  
And leaves no trace

(Conjure One)

-

My illness snuck up on me.

Even when it drew close enough to touch it still managed to elude me—and this is really quite basic. Disease diagnosed in its late stages is disease that generally cannot be treated, and that is the reason for many patient's deaths. It does not help that the worst diseases are the ones that display the vaguest symptoms and only cause terrible suffering when the patient cannot be saved.

Disease happens to doctors, too—even the pretty ones. I suppose, in reality, I was sick _before_ Black Jack and _before _my interning year; for months beforehand I was afflicted with a number of small, incidental problems. Something was wrong with my middle, and I was slightly aware of it, a strange problem eating away at the center of my being, causing me to lose small bits of control. I was out of balance in many ways.

I grew tired too quickly; so many times had my friends invited me out and I suddenly could not join them, exhausted and saddened. I was thwarted by unpredictable digestion; I would end up spending too long in the bathroom for reasons I could not contemplate. I felt changed, but every ailment was too vague, too unfounded, and I had no answer. I had only the small sense of hopelessness that rooted itself in the pit of my stomach, a feeling of doom whenever I stopped to look outside the hospital walls.

My back hurt. Later on my middle got worse and my periods would come through in unfamiliar shockwaves, so nauseating and painful that my nights were filled with wrenching torment and bright stars that flashed behind my eyes as I struggled to sleep. When I awoke I would often lean over the bed to vomit, my belly swollen and my mind reeling.

In retrospect, the symptoms appear as serious red flags—but taken one at a time, never in a predictable fashion, I had no reason to worry...and when I did bring it up to the physicians, it was always written off as something small and manageable. But then one day, early in March, things got much worse. The pain evolved into knife stabs almost overnight. I got sick at the hospital—threw up pink tuna on my shoes—and so I was admitted for testing by Doctor Takata: all kinds of testing, from the mundane to the invasive and everything in between, though I was taken good care of. I ended up staying overnight for observation and in the morning it was suggested that I not leave.

Professor Tokyu told me that I could have any of a number of auto-immune diseases, rattled a few possibilities off, and said that it was warrant for hospital treatment. So I was demoted from doctor to patient! A nurse friend took my clothes, dressed me in a gown, and brought me to my room. She was concerned, it seemed, but convinced that I was to be healed—what could possibly befall me?

My room was a private room with two industrial windows to the left side. In the mornings—and throughout the day, really—the light was almost too bright. For all the hours I had to rest alone, I became too aware of the white filter atmosphere, the emptiness. It was a fine veil that surrounded everything and oftentimes made it difficult to concentrate. But it was part of the effect. I was so beautiful—so beloved on the staff, and such a good doctor. So the softness of the room fit, as did the soft expression on my face and the soft presence of myself in infirmary.

Oh, I knew from early on that I had been lied to—about my condition. It used to be, and still is to some extent, a standard form of practice to hide the fact that the patient is dying from the patient. I had seen it done and in small ways had cooperated in it—telling the terminally ill's family and then watching as a doctor sent the patient home to die in due time. It's supposed to be moral, but I don't think I could bring myself to lie in that situation—and as a patient, it bothered me more that I could not trust what I was told. I wanted to be sure what I was up against, but I knew that if I was truly ill they would not share it with me until necessary.

So I had to question the diagnosis they gave me in the first place, but there was a difference in the way I was treated that forced me to realize that I was really sick; the little potted flowers on my bedside table seemed vaguely ominous, and the ginger, quiet way my nurse friends handled me was strange and unnatural.

I might have _never _known for sure if it wasn't for Black Jack. Early in my stay I awoke to him and Dr. Klein, one on either side of my bed. Klein said good morning but Black Jack did not. Klein continued by asking how I was doing and then informing me that Black Jack would be my caretaker as far as interns went. Black Jack seemed not to care, but I watched him closely and interpreted his hard, apathetic stare as a sign of distaste. He was having a problem with Klein, I concluded, like he had problems with every other staff member.

As soon as Klein left, he announced he had a regimen of vitamins and supplemental aids for me. I turned to one side, smiling to let him know I appreciated his care; he made no comment and took my arm, and proceeded to give me my shots. And every day afterward, he was there—sometimes performing for senior physicians but more often just to do his rounds on me.

Knowing that I was ill allowed me to truly feel that way. I no longer pretended to be well, and I became very sick within a week of admittance—but I continued to smile because I was so beautiful and so sick, and so sure of everything. But I grew tired of the pain and the constant pressure in my tummy, tired of waking up with the need to vomit. I grew weary of the books and flowers placed next to my bed. I grew weary of the innate knowledge of being lied to, weary still of listening to my friends weep over my dying as they assumed I slept.

I allowed only one person to see my exhaustion: Black Jack. He was different, and although that was already well established, I took advantage of it. He would do his rounds, and I wanted attention from him, so I ceased my satisfied expression and relaxed into sickness. I knew he took note of it all; my sunken eyes, listless breathing, pained position. He refused to pamper me like anyone else would have. He took care of me in the coldest fashion, but it was the fullest fashion, the neatest fashion. He saw to everything and never showed himself at all.

He had a most charming way of drawing blood; he would lay my right arm across the bed and as he worked he would tell me about the sorts of treatment I could expect that day. I liked this. I liked his selfish approach, believe it or not—I could see him working, see the gears turning. He was a jerk, but he had a cause for medicine, and I found I could ask him what I could not ask others.

Once, as he drew blood for the endless testing schedule, I raised my voice, spoke to him. I tried to meet his eyes but he would not allow it entirely. The name of my suspected ailment was on the tip of my tongue, the foremost concept on my mind: cancer. What else could be so perfectly destructive? I asked him in a quiet but assuming tone, tilting my head up so he might have to look at me. "It's cancer, isn't it?"

Here he paused, then slipped a needle in and fussed with the syringe. "Yes." He said astutely, as if the answer was privileged and special. "You have cancer of the ovaries; it's extremely malignant and has spread throughout your uterus and has... partially invaded your abdominal wall."

I saw it then. It was _very _serious. The symptoms fell into place and my fate was nicely sealed. I watched Black Jack for his reaction. His gloved hands prepared the ampule with all the latex snaps and crinkles he could muster. The smell of the procedure lingered in my mouth and my arm started to sting. He set my blood on a tray and sniffed properly.

"It's bad," I repeated, so I could hear myself say it out loud. "Is there anything to be done?"

"Something will be done," He said. I saw a slight change in his expression, then the graven demeanor as he let go of my arm. "Surgery to remove the tumors. I suspect a followup with chemotherapy."

He left as neatly as he had come, and left me in a state of pleasant shock. I developed a very deep love for Black Jack that day—because he was very real, and very different, and medically speaking, very rare. Surgery went without saying, but I was content to know, even when it later occurred to me that the condition was probably inoperable.

-

When I was younger—when I was still—effeminate—going out was an engaging and enjoyable experience; even more so was the time spent making myself 'pretty'. So many minutes spent in front of a mirror, make-up here, but not too much, as I had naturally good skin; hair cropped and stylish, salmon lips, full and expressive features, clothing just modest enough to flatter. I don't get to do that anymore. Instead I spend my time performing an inverted version of the original, _hiding _my female features, emphasizing _anything _that could be defined as masculine. I scrutinize that which I cannot change. My lips are too red. My expression will forever need work.

This is all in preparation. I'm leaving my hotel room, going out to see an old friend, and I will be nervous, and I will be self-conscious. The concept of _who _and _what _Black Jack is — it's heavy on my mind. He's a criminal, a rogue— a criminal! I'm meeting a criminal in public. I am not what I used to be, and he knows this. And he is world-renowned, so much bigger than me, much more important. He has been called upon by the darkest individuals in the darkest corners of the strangest nations, paid for with the most ill-begotten coins, and I am just a fellow physician with a physician's job.

Did I see it coming? His flight? In retrospect I could piece it together. He left everything we represented; he ceased to exist among the doctors who trained him and the staff who worked with him. It mattered very little to us because he had never been completely part of us, and then we were busy anyway. We were respectable, working people of medicine. And for a while, a few years after med school, it was very quiet, and we thought no more of Kuroo — of Black Jack.

But then there were the articles in the back of local papers, and there was talk of an unlicenced physician. Unsurprising and more than likely a fallacy. Then it was a legend among the people of the city and its suburbs. Those of us in the medical community threw the concept back and forth—a surgeon, unlicenced, with skill enough to draw patients, to charge his own way, to keep mouths closed. _Not _important enough. Not yet. Not enough rhyme, reason, or proof to worry about a quack, even if he's fair with a scalpel.

And _then_ a very tidy report was released among us doctors, a written report with a set of black and white photos depicting a naked adolescent who had undergone major reconstructive surgery after being struck by a produce truck. The boy was from a somewhat prominent family, a farming family, and he was given emergency treatment at a nearby hospital and left in a barbiturate coma. He was expected to die before any major operation could be performed; no one surgery could stabilize him, and putting him under was too risky. However, before his inevitable death, he was removed from the hospital and transferred to private nursing care in his home.

But he was not so much under private nursing as he was under the care of an underground surgeon, presumably Black Jack for the sake of argument. The pictures were fascinating, gruesome. The boy's shoulder and torso had been nicely realigned, affixed, and the discrepancies relatively minor, scars—stitching scars— up and down, offset bones held in place by pins and rods that were still exposed along the collarbone. There was also some cosmetic work, and the boy could move about with a pair of crutches. But how? It was a question we pondered but didn't press.

He would be arrested.

But it never happened—or if it did, it didn't matter any. Quietly, slowly, Black Jack made his way into our hospitals and our psyches. He left miracles in his wake, and _debt_—for his procedures costed dearly, reportedly up into the millions for the more complex operations. Today he is living legend. He is _here_ preforming open heart surgery on a toddler with Eisen-Menger complex; he is _there_ reattaching limbs, two of them, left and right.

And with therapy, they both work. How does an unlicensed doctor have the tools and facilities to operate and rehabilitate such a case?

We didn't know. We didn't ask.

-

Inoperable, probably. I rolled the concept around in my mind, tested it. It was the truth; most advanced cases of ovarian cancer are difficult to remove surgically. Usually it can't be done without heavy rounds of chemotherapy and radiation—and in all honesty, that sort of barrage removes the will to live, and then you die anyway because you can't stand the operative process.

There is only so much you can do, they say amongst themselves. Chemo, codeine, hydromorphone. Death.

I believed this, but fortunately my inamorato did not. It's true— Black Jack worked harder for me than I suspected he could. He popped in and out of my room, constantly surveying even when other doctors took over for him. I liked it, admittedly. There's no point in denying this. He was my reason for opening my eyes in the morning. His refusal to exaggerate or emphasize my situation made me feel good, even strong. I respected him like no other—and you can call it girlish, silly, hopelessly romantic, but I knew that he held stock in me beyond the doctor-patient variety. I felt it increasingly as my pain became a constant and the date of necessary treatment grew near. He watched me with fond eyes. I saw it more than once—it was the same expression every time the nurses took me out of bed to shuffle around the campus and the same expression every time they put me back in bed to recover. He watched over me during my worst stretches and stayed with me late into the night, working quietly while I pretended to be asleep.

Often I felt like being disobedient, so I'd stop pretending and intentionally sit up to watch him as he went through his books. As a doctor it was his duty to reprimand me, but as a friend he took the time to curse my disease in all the small ways he could—talking in his dead tone about the common things like chemotherapy and radiation and surgical removal and rehabilitation. He spoke of red, thrashing struggle and little comfort, but I trusted him beyond any of that.

The night before my surgery—which he informed me of at the last possible moment—he stayed with me only until eleven. For most of that time he was busy taking notes and reading, and I only watched him. But then he took up his book and clipboard under one arm and sat near me. His lips parted in stoicism and I saw that they were dark with scar tissue, and his teeth were too well-organized to be anything but reconstruction from the bottom up. His eyes were wet and hard.

"If you would like, Klein has given me permission to operate." He said.

"Oh!" I lit up. What an honor for him, I thought. I never stopped to consider the facts—that he was an intern, that his superiors disliked him, that my cancer was too advanced.

"I will only operate if you want me to."

"I want to have the surgery," I said.

He nodded, paused. Then he surprised me—he took my hand in his and looked at me very seriously. "Megumi," He spoke my name in a rare burst of sociability. "I will have to perform a radical hysterectomy—that's every female organ down to the cervix." He swallowed, refocused, and continued. "The growth is too advanced to leave any piece behind—it's going to be a change. A loss of hormones will mean the loss of some inherently female phenomenon. Menopause. It will put an end to some things."

"I know."

"You won't be able to have children."

"I know."

"I promise I will save your life."

"Thank you."

He seemed to have said what he needed to say. He tightened momentarily in a sudden onset of discomfort, or perhaps embarrassment, and gazed at the hospital-colored wall. He was full of acidic pout. After a few moments he leaned over and kissed my face, and I was happy.

"Sleep for now," He said. "I will schedule your operation for tomorrow morning."

That he was serious about. I slept, but it was still black outside when a nurse-friend appeared to move me to a Gurney and into an operating room. She was silent and shame-faced, and I was too groggy at that point to wonder why.

I lay partially prepped in the OR for a long time, and when Kuroo appeared, he was alone. There was great possibility in the sterile air, and when he spoke to me, it was good. I watched and listened to his setting up. I was very still as he started my anesthesia. Just before the drugs took hold, he asked if I had faith in him. I said yes, and fell into black unconsciousness, expecting very little.

-

To be continued (obviously)

I would love to hear any comments you have. _Stay beautiful and be good to your parents...they been good to you!_


	4. Chapter 4

**A Day So Bright - Chapter 4**

**Author's Notes:** Whoo! Chapter four! IT ONLY TOOK ME FOREVER. But here it is—the longest chapter yet. With only one chapter to go, I hope to wrap this project up before the one-year mark. Reviews make me happy and I would appreciate them. )

-

It is hard to describe exactly what happened to me after my surgery. Immediately afterward, of course, I was in a lot of pain. I was medicated for the pain, and for a good reason—it was quite severe. Everything was an uncertainty, ranging from the uncertainty of myself, my physical self, to Black Jack, because— and unsurprisingly so—he had taken it upon himself to break hospital code and operate on me in some sort of illegality.

Obviously it wasn't the mercenary, unlicensed work he does now, but he was still being the hardheaded ass he was, breaking rules for reasons he could only justify to himself. I can only guess why he thought it was necessary to operate the way he did. A moral reason, I suppose, makes the most sense.

Ah, but the operation. The lifesaving hysterectomy. Romantic and inspired as that operation was, I had a very rough go of it afterward. Everybody does; I just didn't know what to expect after Kuroo's "intervention", and the whole belief and confidence I had in myself—what a powerful illusion that was! I had disregarded the surgery and decided that chemotherapy and radiation were tiny obstacles. The loss of my hair and appetite? Completely manageable. I would live. I had everyone to help me. I even had Kuroo, in clandestine terms.

But I had never been under the knife before, and I was in for a surprise as far as the pain went. I wasn't expecting it to hurt as much as it did. I felt like I had a melon in my gut. My eyes filmed over with white gel, my jaw hung slack, and if my head was not in the correct position I drooled. Several hours dragged on like this, mostly unconscious but not unconscious enough. Afterward, I came to and was able to converse, but I was very cranky.

And when I did wake, I had chief physician Klein directly at my side, his expression grim and flat. Later I would realize that he was just as worried about my ability to sue as he was for my actual health; from the moment I awoke to him, he was hardly able to contain his anger.

"Doctor _Kisaragi_! Good afternoon." He was firm about it, as if I already knew the trouble at hand. His good afternoon was dry and unpleasantly sarcastic.

From there on out, when he spoke, it was as if his whole countenance was about to explode. I kept watching the crease in his forehead because his face was drawn tight, and I knew instinctively the kind of headache he was developing. My mind fluttered with possible issues, strangely unconcerned.

He explained to me through a set jaw that Kuroo Hazama was intended to operate under Murakami's watch, and that, more seriously, he had bypassed every basic procedure for organizing surgery. "I refused to permit him to work without assistance." Klein said, expressing this fact as bluntly as possible. "It's dangerous and stupid for the hospital to allow an _intern _to operate on patients with advanced cancer. Your well-being was on the line, as you are well aware! I know he meant well when he asked, but how could I risk it? And what would he learn? He thinks he controls everything here." It was as if he were explaining his decision again to Black Jack and not to me.

He then apologized on behalf of the hospital. This was completely unnecessary but I said nothing. I listened passively as he described Black Jack's transgressions, and the procedure after that. How he had little assistance, only the few nurses who aided in setup and other small things. How long the operation took—around two and a half hours (very quick, Klein noted, for the thorough job he did.)

Klein assured me that I was healthy, that Black Jack, while obviously insubordinate, was an educated and naturally skilled surgeon. He told me that measures would be taken to ensure my safety from here on out; later, I realized that this meant keeping Black Jack away from me, keeping him busy with far less precious work, rescuing me from his presence and forbidding any medical interaction. _I_ might have wanted him near me, but I was a silly woman with silly romantic inclinations. Black Jack? He didn't care—not really, not on the most important level. He knew what it was—stupid, mostly. I saw nothing of him for the duration of my treatment.

And all the while I could see the anger behind Klein's eyes, and I suspected this was for the loss of a student as much as the whole trouble. Perhaps he understood the value of a person such as Kuroo; maybe it was just the fact that he was a capable surgeon. Either way, it would all cease to matter. The punishment would be enough to silence him, or at least prevent him from attaining any level of achievement.

In the end the hospital barred him from receiving his license. I was later told by coworkers that he had the chance to appeal that decision; obviously he never did. The nurses, especially those who had assisted him in my operation, talked about it for a while with an air of sadness. As time passed, it ceased to matter.

But I did have more treatment to endure, and this meant that attention would shift to me once again. I went through a few light rounds of radiation and chemotherapy; during this time I was able to continue my studies, although I only continued internship near the end, when the medicines were easier on my body and I was stronger. In truth it was not that hard to bear. The pain and humiliation of chemo was negligible for me, and I was surrounded by nurses with soft minds and bodies, nurses who pampered me through the whole thing. I remember my hair pulling out in chunks, how they would brush it until I had a pattern of misarranged wisps on my scalp. And that was about the extent of things, really. I managed my diet and my activity so that I wasn't overtaken by illness. I was much luckier than the cancer patients I once tended to. The linings of my insides remained intact. Nobody had to suck them out in layers.

So I don't remember much of it; funny how it turned out like that. All of it was unimportant somehow...all of it something I floated through, every moment fleeting and something I did not care about. I would conquer it with dignity. And I suppose I did.

The only trouble was what came after.

It was a lot like being startled in deep water, you know—flailing, suffocating, and then finding yourself on the shore. Safe, but washed up and still afraid. The cancer might have been the water, sure.

Sure; I was all awash in the events of the cancer. From the word go, the whole experience had been admittedly fast and difficult to discern. But then I was on the mend. I was a year older and still living in my student-grade apartment, worked in the same hospital after completing my internship. I was a general physician and I typically stayed out of the emergency room, tending to patients recovering from various procedures. It was nice. It was cute, fulfilling all of my little doctor goals, but something was still grievously wrong. I believe it had something to do with the empty part in my middle.

Black Jack saved me. He saved me with unfathomable technique and who-knows-what kind of intuition. The man's a genius, after all. But I do believe he had to gouge me out to keep the malignancy from growing back. He must have cut and pulled with great prejudice; he must have reamed the pit of me of all flesh, and then the abdominal wall and the organs within, those he could not ream but I'm sure he excised the tumors cleanly. He must, he must—he _must _have done these things.

I know this is not certain, of course—I was unconscious. But I have a feeling that—when he removed my womb, he did it knowing full well the consequences. And I don't mean menopause and sterility; I mean the sadness that came much later. He must have known. I sensed his reluctance to do it.

You see, afterward I fell to pieces. There was no joy in my life or my career. All of that stupid charm I had possessed, the shine of quick goodness, the beauty—with my womanhood gone, so to went the qualities. I hated every bit of it. I was distant and empty; I didn't get my period any more, and without it I was a timeless, aching lump.

And another thing: I got so _cold_, and so _aimless_. I remember the night I changed for good. Like every night before, I was cold, the sort of cold that keeps you from doing anything with a clear head. I shuffled around the house with nerves that were raw but also numb. I picked things up and set them down arbitrarily. I wanted to talk with someone but there was no one and—and I didn't have anything to say, anyway.

The first step was getting warm but I wasn't about to climb into bed, no, because I knew I would only think myself into tears again, sleep after hating being there. Instead, I ran a bath as hot as my plumbing would allow and sat in it and felt bad. I sat and sat until the water turned chill. The drain in that old tub was shoddy and in time the water level fell to my ankles. I shivered with my knees pulled up to my chin, but I didn't run any more water. I examined the scars on my tummy, noted the angle and discretion of the incisions, thought about how he had to peel back a layer of yellow fat and clip rubbery veins. How he dissected, how he finally removed the black parts and how feverishly he might have worked, bent over in a stretch of surgical triumph.

Yes. The uterus must be pulled out onto the abdomen. Flop.

I was ashamed of myself; I was wondering if bodies smelled when cut open on a table. Then, in a moment of stillness, I chanced to glance beyond the scars, down at the inconspicuousness of my pubic mound. I wasn't thinking right, or I was thinking too much, or I was too suspicious...but at the time I thought I saw the black of sickness there. I became terrified, jumped out and caught myself in the mirror. I looked for a long time with the cold air tightening the skin on my back and making gooseflesh pop up on my arms. I decided that everything I saw was ugly. No, not so much that it was unpleasant to look at, but rather that it didn't matter anymore.

And if it didn't matter, I didn't want people to think it did.

What does that mean? I'm not sure exactly what or why or how. I can't pinpoint the fracture that led me to leave my life as it once was. I do not know why masquerading as a man saved me; in fact, it might not have been the only route. I only know that as I tried, I hurt less.

I won't kid you. I don't enjoy doing this, for the most part. I'm not a man, not even in my mind. But I can't be a woman anymore—does that make sense?—and aside from suicide or solitude, there's only one alternative. Besides; maybe I do like the act, to some extent. It's something to do—not a game that I relish, but one that numbs me to the worst part of being me.

The only real struggle is facing those who knew me as a woman—but that carries its own dignity...

-

For several moments I stand in the midst of the park, a little awkward, maybe, but feeling strong. I took a cab here; I was able to talk with the driver, so I feel good about my presentation. My briefcase and jacket secured with one arm, I begin to walk. This is brave for me, but the park is large, and Black Jack could be anywhere if he is indeed here. I will look for him.

It's a child's laughter that leads me in the right direction. I can hear it above the slight wind that, once again, is in my hair—it's also in the trees now, but all else is quiet. I don't even hear any cars, but there's a voice—two voices.

My God, does he have a child with him? He does! He stands with his back turned to me, but I know it's him. He's so still, and his hair is salted. So who is this child? At first, I'm tempted to think it is his, that he has married and produced a child. Although he's never been one to share much of anything, I can't help but assume that this is the case. And it hurts me and makes me feel stupid until I see the single crutch that the girl leans on. One of her legs is braced at the knee, and she must favor the other. I look and see other discrepancies, too, but otherwise she is vibrant and animated. She must be a patient, then, I reason. Perhaps she lives with him.

Black Jack is looking over the distant water, responding to the child's excited conversation with uninvolved words. She throws herself against a banister. "It's so _pretty _here, doc!"

Here I must interrupt. My knees turn to jelly as I walk forward. "Doctor Black Jack." Ah—my voice is steady, just a tad emasculated as it usually is. He pivots on a heel and stops. I feel a flash of hot nerves. And he, too, is changed in the face. He looks honestly surprised by my presence—or maybe my looks—or maybe something else entirely. Then his expression is gone, and I can feel sweat on my collar.

"Doctor Kisaragi," He states. But he smiles, and I smile too because I still admire him, and he never smiles, or at least he never _did_. "How have you been?"

It's like a game show question. I furrow my brow. "I'm good." Right? "You haven't changed a bit!" This is partially a lie. He has changed. He looks much older. There are fine wrinkles around his eyes, and the skin over his face is not as taut as it once was. I know he looks at me and sees the same changes. _We're getting older, _I think to myself.

"Introduce me." The little girl tugs at his jacket. He puts a hand at her back and beckons at me with his eyes. He smiles again, but this time it is a little sheepish.

"This is my daughter, Pinoco." She bows enthusiastically. I try to return it but I admit I don't have that much spunk in me. As she stands I find myself grinning with wonder at the Doctor, who steers her away with his palm, saying, "Go play. I'll be over here." What a funny thing, this little girl! Surely he has a story to tell me about her. She leaves, bounding away with that crutch as I've never seen a patient do before. Black Jack and I are left to ourselves and the embarrassing knowledge we have of each other, but the glow of the child gives me something to start with.

"Who is she? Is she a patient?"

I cannot stop smiling!

"Have you ever heard of a _teratogenous cystoma_? They are mostly referred to along with vanished twin syndrome."

"Yes."

"More or less, she is a vanished twin"

"That's impossible."

"Oh, yes. Usually the growth becomes malignant within the other fetus. I didn't want to believe it myself, but the sac contained her body neatly. Her limbs were malformed, and she still has to overcome some issues with her mobility. But we're working together on that—with time I hope it will be cured."

Here is a man whose hands have fractured and affixed the bones, vessels, and intricate threads of the human body a hundreds times over, with the skill for detail higher than any artist or architect, and his ingenuity makes me shiver. I myself have read of his graftings, his transplants, his excisions, his trauma care. But I realize now that there are things, amazing things, that he has done in the black corners of his home and our hospitals, that far surpass any miracle to be read about in the latest medical journal. I feel so small next to him.

"I don't understand. Did you adopt her?" I ask tentatively.

He closes his eyes and breathes out, as if it is a long story to tell. "My intent was to operate on her for free—you see, they hired me to excise her only. They didn't realize the implications. But when I presented her to the family, they wouldn't take her. And it's been years, I suppose, since then. But she is a good little girl."

I smile and my lips tremble just a bit.

"Here." He motions to a picnic table. "Let's sit down."

"Oh yes. Please."

We sit and talk, and the talk is light. The longer I am in his presence, the more I fear that I am making a fool out of myself. I still have a crush on him, don't I? It's matured and has become cynical, but it has not weakened.

What does he think of me? See these hands, Black Jack, how slender and female they are? I chose the glasses to make my face more masculine. See how I dress? I dress like you but I have to try harder so it looks like I'm really a man.

He does indeed look happy, or at least interested. But I fear his judgment. I fear that he looks at me and knows that I do not have to do this, that the loss of my uterus means very little to my womanhood. But he doesn't know how I suffered. He can't know.

Or does he?

My hand curl around themselves, and I suppress the heat on my face. Black Jack leans forward with an expression of genuine curiosity. "Do you know where you're next headed?"

"Australia," I say. I find myself wishing I had a cup of tea to occupy myself with. "From there on, I'm not sure where."

He pauses and responds. "I admire your strength. Traveling exhausts me."

He speaks of strength that I lack.

In the fading light, we sit and shuffle the conversation back and forth, I lacking the desire to discuss myself, and he being the same quiet, computing creature he was in med school. His child—Pinoco; what a demented name—interrupts us, constantly, in the whirlwind-like way that children do. She's there to tug at a piece of clothing, ask for his attention or his permission to go beyond the bend of the road or to get into the car. He's despondent, busy talking with me, but I can tell that he loves her.

This is good for him. I see him interacting with her and I am filled with a sense of comfort. He has something now, something I bet he never thought he'd have.

We are so close, he and I, and suddenly I know he sees it too. Here, now, there is a lack of social tangles, of the need to focus and build, focus and build like there once was. In the silence between the times we meet, he must think of me as I think of him; as a far away person with intimate knowledge of this _one _thing, forced to fit into the machine of human society, a person fit for love but unable to come close for fear that the useless distraction would _destroy _them, make them less than a man or less than a woman.

How beautiful he still is, getting older now. The lines dignify his features. He is a beautiful man playing a beautiful game, and all the time he is getting better. _I know you still struggle, _I think as I stare into him. He stares back with the same disconnected zeal, but I am not so easily conned into thinking that he is not one step ahead of me—no, he stares and he feels the same things, and he sees the futility that I see, but he also sees and ultimately detests the stupidity of it. He sees the...how to put it...the _silliness _and _improbability _of our human feelings, our "love" (because it still exists, abstractly,) our little desires for a wedding bouquet or a sweet saccharine existence together. He sees how stupid that is. It's so stupid that he can't even bring himself to laugh at it. He actually is disgusted by the idiocy there. I know this.

We walk together to the edge of the park and look out at the harbor and the setting sun. We talk about it, how pretty the water and the sun are, and the city that accents them both. Standing next to him makes me feel like a fag. I'm a lot smaller than he is, I realize.

He smiles big at the water.

This is fine. This is all I need to reassure myself of him— and a step towards reassuring myself of me; of who I am.

-

A little later he discovers that Pinoco has run off. He slams the car door shut.

"Dammit!"

If I could accept it, I would think he was embarrassed. He apologizes profusely and goes to look for her.

I sit on the curb for some time, quietly amused. I've begun to feel the absurdity of the suit, tie, and officious glasses, although I'm willing to bet that if anyone should see me here, they wouldn't question me. The clothes are good. I like to imagine that I look like a nerd.

Then his little girl hops out of a row of hedges and scares me half to death; I jerk away before I realize who she is. She prances over to me with both innocence and mischief in her eyes.

"You know, the Doctor will be mad at you." I say. Admittedly I'm pissed off. I don't like being made to jump.

"It's just a game. I do it all the time."

"He's out looking for you right now. You better go find him and tell him where you are!"

"He'll be back." She sits close to me on the curb, dropping her crutch. I am at first uncomfortable at her nearness, how she reaches out to touch the fabric of my sleeve and leans in close, where, undoubtedly, she can see the traces of woman underneath. Children see things differently than adults. They're very perceptive about me.

"Why were you hiding?"

"Doc tells me you have a sister." She presses near me, curious to know a story that's not entirely true.

When Black Jack does return, he scolds her something terrible, and he apologizes again and again.

-

I hope you enjoyed it, for what it was worth. In the next chapter, Dr. K will wrap up nicely. I can't wait for it.

**Thanks for reading.**


	5. Chapter 5

A Day So Bright - Chapter 5

**Author's Notes: **Well, almost a year later, and I've come to the end of this story. It's very important to me, and while I know I'll produce better as I continue to learn, I doubt I'll have a story as special as this to work on for a long time.

I'm glad I finished this sooner rather than later. I have a feeling I'm going to be very busy over the next several months, and there are other pieces of fanfiction I'd like to write—more _Black Jack_, _Metropolis_, maybe even _Astro Boy_—but I can't move on until I get this over and done with.

I'll be sad to see this go, though. I really love Dr. K as a character, and this is probably the biggest project I'll have to focus on her/him. Nevertheless it's been fun, and I've gotten a lot of really groovy support from my friends and family. So thanks, guys. I hope you enjoy this.

**This chapter dedicated to Anson**, because he knew what I was talking about, and he usually does, and he puts up with things like this with a kind of stolidity that I find admirable but unattainable.

-

This is what I've learned so far:  
Everything is grey.  
Few things are forever  
And it hurts when good things fade.

- _Grey _(Sarah Bettens) Sent to me by my good friend Emma, who has a gift for finding songs that really hit the spot. Consider it the anthem for this story.

I have no uterus and no ovaries. It's a very _small _token of maleness, certainly—however, there are specific laws that state that I am allowed to be listed as male because of the absence of these organs. I do not know how these laws came to be, but I appreciate the policy, to say the least. It makes this whole shenanigans easier. Hiding behind a pseudo-masculine facade was neither easy nor entirely sensible, but I pulled it off with surprising speed, and—I thought—grace. I went to men's stores, picked the least-assuming suits. I especially liked the ties, for the choice of color as well as the function. The one major difficulty was finding a size that fit me; I was so petite. The first jacket I bought flopped over my shoulders, and the hemline went past my waist.

These days I tend to have suits tailored, and the problem is mostly removed.

Shaking and awkward, I would dress myself in the chill air of my bedroom. I struggled with the fabrics, and worked until my fingers hurt from all the minuscule adjustments. I developed a lip-biting tic; still, I began to get it right after just a few tries. Early and sudden menopause had given me a slightly aged look, made the fatigue in my face show a little more, and this helped. I learned to set my jaw and affix my stare to give myself a handsome, man-like expression. The mirror was my best friend.

Physically I changed very little. I had always had small breasts, so they were not hard to hide. At first I considered drugs to shrink them, but in the end I utilized sports bras that were too small. With a loose shirt, no one could really tell. In fact, I have found that the masculine attire creates its own flattering bust, if your jacket is buttoned and your tie in tucked in properly.

My vision started declining, just to the point of needing reading glasses. This was well timed. I chose a sturdy, masculine style, and as I needed upgrades I continued to pick thick, exaggerated frames. By that time, I was already carrying myself as a man. At first I was self-conscious, but I found that people believed me to a high extent. If I had to correct someone in public because they had the thought to call me 'ma'am', I found that I was accepted with great speed. I know that on many cases that their belief was hugely speculative. It didn't matter—they would never see my bathroom habits or my underwear, and I told myself this over and over, until it was a self-empowering mantra.

As I got better at my masquerade, I pulled myself out of my initial depression, and there were times when I wanted to return to the hospital campus. I wanted to visit with people I once knew. But I was too embarrassed. It was hard enough to face them when they ran into me by accident. I could see the expression of concealed disbelief and amazement, and it humiliated me.

But I remember quite clearly when I first met with Black Jack. I asked him to visit, early on in my transformation. He was still vaguely present in the university, even though his work as a doctor had been cut short. We met in a café in a district that catered to travelers coming in from the airport; I remember this because everyone had some form of baggage, and there was an air of general confusion all around us.

By then he had transformed into an even less welcoming individual. He sat back from the table, almost as if he expected me to present him with something he already hated. I bought him some coffee. Socially you would think he would have thanked me, or protested the cost, but he did neither; only took dutiful sips.

His silence was louder than anything other discomfort that I had ever encountered. I smiled and tried to explain myself. I told him that he could called me Kei now, and laughed about it, like it was funny. He didn't laugh.

That's what I would expect from him—although it seems like every time we meet, he gets a little better—a little more open.

Bless him, though, for being one who never questioned me out loud! Bless him for not looking me in the eye and _asking_. He must have his own thoughts about it, but the wonderful thing about him is how he does not confront me. And that from a man who isn't afraid to confront things!

He must be working to ease my pain. But his indifference is a sharp blade. It's a humbling, stupefying thing. And as he grows larger in the sight of the world—well, he makes me feel smaller, and less important.

As Black Jack's celebrity increases, as it has been, recently, in the wake of his more publicized procedures done in Russia and Croatia, his likeness appears here and there in the political cartoons and commentaries of newspapers and magazines. Oftentimes he is portrayed as a dark, malevolent creature, a deformed harlequin who swindles his patients, hurts mankind's goal for medicine, and mocks the methods of honest hospitals; but sometimes, he is portrayed as a good man—a powerful silence that assures the safety and health of the sickest and most persecuted people. There is a famous and quite striking ink drawing, done by a European artist, who depicted him as having angels' wings; he stands with his hands folded above a patient, black in the face but having a healthy halo and the gentle presence of those beautiful white wings.

There's the question people ask: Is he an angel or a demon? It's hard to say for certain—I've heard a few stories of people he bankrupted. But then I've heard far more about the innocents who were saved from terrible illness and injury. And in the end I remember his good judgment, the risks he took for me, and the way he seems to watch for me, and that proves his character.

-

The third day comes. I am quiet and prepared, packing my things and leaving my hotel room clean. I'm feeling better than before; I feel a small light of confidence within me. I'm not cured of my exhaustion, no, but there's — no such thing as a cure-all in this world. I feel _better_, more stable, and that is all I can ask for. Armed with the memory of Black Jack's silent, confidential expressions, I depart for my work.

The ports are crowded. I have to squeeze through and around all sorts of people, both ship workers and the guests. A few crewmen tip their hats at me, but there's too much noise to say hello. The sun is bright, and the sounds of the harbor are loud. I'm washed up in the senses, and I'm not watching where I'm going, so I brush right into a passerby.

I look up, and it's Black Jack himself. A froggy, surprised noises escapes from my throat. He's gazing down at me with bright, glassy eyes. The sun is shining at his back, and if it weren't for that roadmap of scars and discolorations, he would look holy.

"Why," I say at last, emboldening the inner man again. "It's you!"

"I had to stop by. I forgot to give this to you; it's yours." He pushes a wide book into my hands.

"Goodness! What is _this_?"

"Pictures of you. Your former self, if you will." He lifts his chin up and exhales. "I think it's better for you to have them now."

I pull the album near me. "Well, thank you, sir."

He turns toward the Brilliance, scans it with an uncomfortable expression. I do believe he is out of his element. "I take it the ship is weighing anchor soon." He says.

"Yes."

Squinting at it, then looking mildly puzzled, he says, "I don't know how you manage it, Kei. It's more than a man's job."

"It's a distraction."

"That is what I suspected."

I tell him goodbye, take a last look at him, and leave. Lost in the crush of bodies, I trudge forward, checking in with the crew and pushing my way up. I only want to get to my room. Work can come later.

Inside the air smells unfamiliar, and dust motes fly up from the carpet as the door slips open. Relieved to be in a quiet place, I set my suitcase down, flip my jacket over my arm—and then I take a first good look at the book Black Jack bestowed upon me.

It's thin and very plain. There is no title or marking. Rubbing a layer of slick from my fingers, I flip to the first page. Blank. I turn another. This time, there are photos, all of myself— but from years passed. They are myself as a woman, my med-school days, both before and after my treatment.

Some of them are from various outings and celebrations: birthdays, holidays of the spring and summer, several trips to the beach. But many of them are pictures taken by friends as I recovered from the cancer. Here's me in a wheelchair with a big hat.

Here's some of school: Me and an armful of books. Me at a staff party—standing next to Dr. Black Jack, who looks cranky.

Something bursts in my middle. I feel a flood of warmth in me, a little flutter of my insides. I cannot tell if I am saddened or reassured by these photos. I can only see that I was once very different from what I am now.

These pictures will require time to sink in, so I close the book and set it on a desktop.

I am overcome then with a sudden and very heavy fatigue. I look to my left and see white light shining through the windows; it blinds me, and falls upon my bed.

It's the best invitation I've ever received. I fumble to take my glasses off, and then to shuck my shoes and loosen my tie, plus the top button to my shirt. I crawl within the bedding almost urgently. The covers are crisp and cold, the sheets smell like laundry soap, and the pillows are firm and clean. They all feel good against me. It's bliss; that's what it is. It's so simple and so physically satisfying, lying here. It's an answered prayer!

I twist away from the window and its bright, bright light.

I'm going to take a nap, and when I wake, I will feel better.

-

End Remarks: Thanks so much to:

**My friend Emma**, who brightens my days with her sunshine personality. More specifically, she supports my love for Black Jack and Dr. Kei Kisaragi, even when she would rather talk about Skunk Kusai or Astro Boy, and for this she deserves a medal of recognition. This story, and all else that I produce (including my bowel movements) is fashioned with her in mind.

**My school chums**, who put up with me, ask me if I'm ever going to write Pokemon fanfiction again, and are nice enough to keep me entertained.

**My father**, who doesn't really like Black Jack at all, but still read this, and made me feel good about myself.

I hope this story was nice for you, and that it painted Dr. K in her proper glory. It breaks my heart to think that it's over already!

Thanks also to those who read and reviewed.


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